The Death of Dear John Watson
by DYLANFLOWER
Summary: Started off as a oneshot and then became a full on fanfic. Dear John Watson has a brain tumour and his days are numbered. As he struggles to cope through his last days on this earth, Sherlock and Mary try to help him through. MaryxJohn with friendship fluff between Sherlock and John. Hope you enjoy!
1. Oneshot

**This is just a oneshot I was thinking of writing. It's about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, based on the BBC series (which I do not own. All rights go to the creators of Sherlock). John and Sherlock have grown old together and John is on his death bed.**

I was sat in my chair when it happened. Staring at John's empty chair across from me, the fabric worn and faded, I wondered why human life always had to end. I had escaped death so many times, much like the God I made myself out to be. But John had always enchanted me with his simple humanity. So there was never any chance that he would out-smart death like I planned to.

John is now 72, living at his and Mary's house, bed-bound for about a month now. He has a brain tumor, and his days are numbered.

When I first heard the news, I spent an entire year trying to find a cure. The whole nation got their hopes up, knowing that nothing could out-smart Sherlock Holmes. I didn't solve any crimes - John wasn't there to prompt me out of my obsession. Mrs Hudson died about twenty years ago, leaving me in charge of Baker Street, alone, with no one to remind me of the passing time.

Until Mary came round and ordered me out of my state, that is. I was sat on the floor, surrounded by books by all the greatest scientists, explaining everything they knew about the deadly disease. I had been on the verge of tearing chunks out of my hair, I hadn't washed or dressed for about a week, and the house was a tip. You and I both know that I don't cope well with stress, and even the drugs weren't helping.

Without John, I truly am a hopeless human being.

Anyway, after a year of researching to no end, I admitted defeat. The whole world grew afraid that a cure would never be found - if Sherlock Holmes couldn't find a cure, who could?

Instead of driving myself out of my mind, I visited John every day, reminiscing about the times before our bones began to creak, our hair to grey, and our skin to wrinkle. I reread every post from his blog and we did actually have a laugh - despite his complaints that I should return Lestrade's calls.

So back to the chair.

Last night, John started having hallucinations, and I had to leave him with Mary. I think he was seeing the war again; he was shouting out commands, looking frantically for a medical kit that wasn't there. He fell over, too, and nearly broke his hip.

It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen. The brave Dr John Watson, completely out of control and out of reach.

I knew today would be the day. So when my phone rang, despite the dread that hung over me like a fog, I was ready for it.

"Sherlock," Mary's voice wavered, "This is it."

I slammed the door to the black cab shut, gripped my walking stick, and hobbled to his door. I was struck with the memory of the first time I'd met John. He'd had that psychosomatic limp that I'd cured him of. I remembered telling him how I knew all about him in the cab, his skin still tanned from Afghanistan's mark. The memory was so clear, so detailed, it felt like a vision.

And then I reached the door.

My breath shook as I inhaled. This would be my last visit to John's house._ Keep it together, Sherlock_.

I knocked the door, and Mary came in seconds.

Her face was puffy and her face pale, so I assumed John was asleep again - she never cried in front of him.

"Hurry." She whispered.

I walked through to what used to be the study, and was now John's downstairs bedroom. A nurse was checking his pulse with a weary face. Probably the last time she'd visit this house.

And John was lying there, asleep, exactly as he'd been for the last month. But this was different. His sleep felt deeper, his face more relaxed, his skin grey and his breaths shallow.

My God.

"_John_." I mouthed.

Mary's hand at my back pushed me forward, and as the nurse left we both sat either side of his bed.

"This is it, isn't it?" I looked up at Mary. I'd never felt unsure or afraid of my deductions before.

"Yes." She nodded, another tear breaking free from her glassy eyes.

I could feel the grief waiting for me, a tsunami tide of feelings and emotions like I'd never felt before. I pushed it back.

And then John's eyes fluttered as he woke up. He opened his mouth, which was our sign that he wanted water, so I brought the cup to his lips while Mary used the remote to lift his bed up a bit.

After he'd drank, I put the cup back on the bedside table.

"Good morning, John." I greeted him.

"Sherlock," He breathed. Then he coughed, and regained some of his voice, "Sherlock, I know this is it. I know I'm gonna go." He didn't sound any different to how he did all those years ago, and if I closed my eyes I could almost imagine that the last thirty years hadn't happened – that he was still living with me in Baker Street before my 'death'. But this was real, so I kept my eyes open and faced it like John would have if our roles were reversed. I tried to become a soldier for John.

I looked down, swallowing hard. I can't.

"So I just want you to know that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You gave me a life that I was destined to live, you annoyed the hell out of me in all the right ways over all these years, and I love you, mate."

Somehow, he wasn't crying; didn't seem at all fazed, as though the situation was unknown to him. But he looked me in the eyes, and I saw his soul in them, lit up like a bonfire. Burning through me.

"I don't know what to say." I smiled, remembering that time I had been about to get on the plane, before Moriarty had returned. And that made me remember.

"Where's Shirley?" I asked. John and Mary's only child, a daughter, who they'd named after me. When he first told me, I'd thought he was joking. But then I'd been the proudest Godfather ever.

"She's on her way. Should be here in about an hour." Mary answered. I looked to her, and we both realised she wasn't going to make it on time.

"Sherlock, I want to talk to Mary, if that's okay."

I left the room, my bloody bones creaking as usual.

Shutting the door behind me, I saw the nurse was just leaving. Before she left, she gave me a look of sympathy. It was that that set me off.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Me and John, we're invincible - it's not supposed to end like this.

It's not supposed to end.

"Sherlock!" Mary called me in.

John's eyelids were drooping, his skin somehow more pale. His breaths were getting slower and farther apart, and my bastard brain wouldn't stop analysing all the signs of death.

"Stop it stop it stop it!" I demanded myself.

Mary looked at me, worried, but a knowing smile spread across John's face, thought he kept his eyes shut. "Don't worry, Sherlock, it's just death. That's what people do. We die."

I gripped his wrinkled hand in my veiny, aged ones, and blinked back the tears that had finally come.

"John," I whispered.

"I'll say hi to Mrs Hudson for you. See you soon."

And then he slowly breathed out, and didn't breathe back in. The silence settled around us like a blanket, smothering me in the knowledge that it had happened.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were no longer together.

Sherlock Holmes was alone again for the first time in forty years.

"_John_!" Mary screamed, shaking his shoulders and trying to bring him back.

But I just smiled, remembering the life we'd had, and thought he'd had the peaceful death he deserved.

And then a single sob escaped my throat as I began to cry.

Rest in peace, Doctor Watson.

**So I hope that wasn't too sad. I don't know if I should carry on with this, make it a bit longer? Let me know And thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 1

The Death of Dear John Watson

**So, I thought it would be a good idea to make the oneshot into a story? I don't know what you guys think about this, but no one suggested anything so I thought I'd just go with it. Thanks for reading so far.**

**Currently listening to: Oblivion by Bastille.**

**All rights go to the makers etc... of BBC Sherlock, I own nothing.**

"Shut up, Anderson." I commanded as I slammed the door in his face. Honestly, was there a brain in that thick skull of his? He may as well be a single-celled organism; he's only capable of just enough thought to keep him alive anyway.

I approached the body lying on the ground. Hair is short, recently trimmed - there are left over flecks of hair on the collar of his work shirt. So he got his hair cut after work. Next I turned to his hands. Not married, hasn't removed the ring as the skin is soft around his ring finger. Shoes, must check the shoes. Ah, from Clarks, recently bought. What about the shirt? Yes, just as I suspected, newly bought. Slipping my hand into his blazer pocket, I withdrew a receipt. Casa Di Fiori, a nice restaurant, very expensive. More desperate than I thought.

I stood up to face Lestrade. His hands were absent-mindedly brushing his thighs, and a small dent formed in between his eyebrows. His eyes flitted around the room. Clearly, he was as nervous as I was about John's—

No.

"It was his date, the one who called us." I said, picking up my Belstaff coat from the hotel sofa.

"Really? She seemed so nice, so upset... Are you sure?" He asked, but there wasn't enough emotion in his voice to tell me he really cared. He was just saying what he expected himself to say.

I sighed in exasperation, but decided to explain it to him anyway. I needed distracting.

"He's recently brushed up on his appearance; new work shirt, new shoes and a haircut, but done too short, so he tried a new hairdresser, possibly for a new look but I would need older pictures of him to be sure. He's not married – hasn't ever been, and by thirty years of age I think it's safe to say he's getting desperate. So, what do you do when you want a wife? You brush up on your appearance and go on a date, but this wasn't just any date, no, he went to Casa Di Fiori, a very high-spec restaurant. So clearly he's been on lots of dates before that haven't been successful – he's going to the most expensive place he can afford. With a blazer like that, he clearly doesn't splash the cash much. Anyway, when she offered to go to a hotel with him, he was far too desperate for it to notice the weird way she looks at him. Next thing you know, stabbed in the stomach, dead."

"Okay." Lestrade said, too tired and stressed for much more of a reply, "Anderson!" He called.

"Yes?" Anderson's head popped in the doorway, clearly annoyed.

"We're done here. It was the date- Don't ask." Lestrade cut him off.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go to St Bart's."

I stepped through the automatic doors and inhaled the thick scent of antiseptic. I hate hospitals. I took off towards the stairs.

"Sherlock, where d'you think you're going?" Lestrade called after me.

"To see Molly." I called over my shoulder, pulling my coat's collar up and striding towards my destination.

"Stop right there." Lestrade called with a threatening tone of voice. That was unexpected. I stopped in surprise and turned to see him jogging over to me.

"Sherlock, I know this is really hard for you, but it's harder for John, so you need to put aside what _you _want and do what _John needs_, for once in your life."

I sighed, "Graham, I am not in the slightest bothered about John's appointment. In case you've forgotten, I'm a sociopath. So please don't let the fact that you had another argument with your wife over what to watch on TV last night, that apparently escalated further than it should have judging by your creased T-shirts that have been folded in an overnight bag, hinder my decision to go and see Molly."

He stood completely still for a second, tensed, before saying "It's Greg." And turning on his heel for to get in the lift.

Bloody sentiment. Can't they see that they bring it on themselves?

I pushed open the door and jogged down the stairs to the morgue. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

**Sherlock, I know you don't care about John, and no one expects you to, but please come. John needs you – MW**

Ah, so someone had given Mary my number. Great. Now I would be getting hourly updates on John. She's clearly trying reverse psychology, telling me not to care about John.

"Molly?" I called as I reached the morgue.

"Oh! Sher-Sherlock!" She replied timidly, appearing around the corner to welcome me through.

"Aren't you supposed to be with John?" She asked, looking into my eyes with concern for a millisecond before she nervously looked away.

I stared at her, not bothering with an answer.

"Um... So we've recently had a new one in. Male, fourty five years of age. Hung himself."

I fell into routine easily, preparing myself for the latest experiment.

"Scalpel." I held my hand out towards Molly, waiting. After a few seconds with no reply, I looked up.

Molly was looking at me, holding the scalpel tightly in her hand.

"Sherlock, I really think you should see John... Because it may not matter now, but if they find something, the time will come when it will take over his... Transport, as you call it. And when that happens, John won't be there to complain about your violin anymore, or to ask you questions about the obvious, or be your best friend anymore. And when that happens, you'll wish you could have spent every second with him. And you'll wish you could have been there with him when his final journey began. You'll have wanted to hold him while he cried, and have your hand on his shoulder while the Doctor explained the next step, and to give him your opinion when chemotherapy is discussed. And if you don't go right now, the guilt will fester in you, until it takes over your mind like John's cancer, and it will kill you too. This isn't just John's burden to bear. It's allowed to affect you, too." She finally looked away, and held out the scalpel. "That's just... What I think. You don't have to listen to me, I just-" Molly looked up when she heard the door slam shut.

She put the scalpel down, smiling sadly.

Sherlock's phone buzzed from across the room. Molly rushed over to pick it up so she could return it to him, but the text caught her eye as she did so.

**It's a brain tumour. Really bad. Doc wants to talk chemo. Please come. John won't stop crying -MW**

**So should I continue, or not? Please let me know, and tell me if you hate it or love it. I really want honest feedback. Thanks for reading.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**So, I've decided that I'm changing this a bit. John and Sherlock aren't really old anymore, they're about 40. I think that's easier to write. Please please please just take a second of your time to review because nobody has and it would really make my day if you could!**

**My medical knowledge isn't anything near good so please don't be annoyed if the details are wrong! Also, I thought I'd write an extra long chapter to make up for my silence :D**

**Currently listening to: Not About Angels by Birdy (anyone else here emotionally damaged by tfios?)**

**All rights go to the makers of BBC Sherlock, I own nothing!**

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(Sherlock's POV)

The lift's doors pinged open and I stepped onto floor 3, looking for the reception desk. Molly's words were still ringing in my ears. Something was stirring in me, a kind of aching in my chest that wasn't quite physical but still_ really_ hurt, and made me want to hunch over and hide from the world. But there was also a feeling rushing through me that pushed through the ache, that went straight into my muscles and kept me searching for the way to John. I identified this as sentiment, and the aching? Loss. John wasn't gone yet, maybe wouldn't be for another thirty or forty years, but the thought that he could be, and soon, meant my sentimental heart was prepping itself for the potential pain, readying itself for the intense emotions to come. Sentiment.

I'd only felt this once before, with Redbeard. A flashing vision of a bronze dog rushing towards me with his tongue lolling out his mouth came to me before I pushed it away.

Yes, sentiment. My worst enemy.

Spotting the desk, I marched forward with my usual accidental arrogance (or perhaps not so accidental) and asked where I could find a Dr John Watson.

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong hospital, sir. There's no Dr Watson working here." The greying lady said. Hospital staff are so unhelpful, so disinterested. She was already typing again, not having looked at me once.

"Not a Doctor, a _patient_. He's here for his results." I snapped back.

"Riiight." She sighed, annoyed at the fact that she had to do her job.

After a few more clicks on her computer, she told me it was wing B, room 221.

"221B, right." I repeated. When I realised the coincidence, I wished fervently that it was a sign of luck and not one of life's cruel jokes.

I began following signs for wing B and tried not to notice all the illness around me. So many wards for different illnesses, all crammed full of people. Once I found wing B, it was worse. Most of the rooms were private and not wards because when people with these illnesses reached hospital, their condition was too bad. I saw a few people walking the corridors in their pyjamas, pale white and with dark circles beneath their eyes. Hopelessness was tangible here.

The aching grew stronger until I thought it would overpower the sentiment and I almost turned back in favour of the flat. Thoughts of my books, experiments and my chair almost pulled me from the hospital, but the sight of 221B stamped on the door to my left expelled all those thoughts as though a tornado had swept through them.

I reached to open the door, of course not knocking, but my muscles froze. Every time I told myself to open the door, the ache took over my arm and locked it so that I could not open the door. I took my hand from the handle. What has gotten into me?

I stared at my feet. Reasons why I should go in:

John needs me.

Lestrade and Molly and Mary want me there.

The sentimental side of me wants to be here.

I want to know the verdict.

Reasons why I shouldn't:

I couldn't stand it if the ache in my chest became a rational reaction.

I am a coward.

Since the reasons for overpowered the reasons against, the only logical explanation was to go in. But for the first time in my reasonably long life, I considered that perhaps some things have more value than others and so could weigh as much as two of the other reasons. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go back to the flat and-

I felt someone's hand on my back. I whipped my head round to see Molly standing there, holding my phone out to me.

"You left it in the Morgue." She said timidly.

I stared at it. I never left my things behind. Never. Slowly, I took it from her.

"Thank you."

"I know you're scared, Sherlock. But you've made it this far..." She trailed off.

I nodded. I remembered the times when I was a child when I had played pirates with Redbeard. I had believed I was strong and brave, and conqueror of the seven seas (and the eighth I'd discovered on one of my adventures with Mycroft). When Redbeard had been taken to the vets to be put down, the only way I'd had enough courage to stand my his side as he was put to sleep was to tell myself I was on another adventure, and that I needed to be a strong and brave pirate for Redbeard, my first mate.

I never played pirates again after that. The game was no fun anymore; the game had become too real.

But I recalled, now, from the depths of my mind palace, the same surreal feeling of courage that had swam through me just because I'd wanted it to as a child. I put on a brave face, pulled up my posture and knocked firmly on the door.

At the time, I'd thought I was being brave, but looking back I realised my mistake. I never knock. I only knocked that day because I was too afraid to pull the door open myself.

"Come in?" Came Mary's voice. It sounded strained, as though whoever it was couldn't have picked a worse time to enter.

I slowly opened the door, taking in the scene before me and trying to deduce what had already been said.

My eyes immediately found John hunched over in his chair. The Doctor was sat at his desk and John had drawn a chair up opposite him. Lestrade and... Was that Harriet? Were sat by the door, behind the scene. Mary had her hand on John's shoulder, just as Molly had described to me. My heart twinged.

John wouldn't react like this without news; he was an army doctor, composed even in the worst situations. So this must have been worse than the worst case scenario.

Not much time left then.

"John, it's Sherlock, look." Mary tried to sound positive but failed miserably as her voice wavered.

John twisted around to look at me. It looked as though that simple action wiped the strength out of him. His face was pale and when he looked at me, his eyes were screaming. I'd never seen John like this – maybe I'd never seen anyone like this, because I didn't see the emotion on anyone else's face.

"It's bad. But you already know that." John said.

I nodded.

Molly coughed from behind me. "I'll just... Go back to the..." She closed the door before finishing. Saying 'morgue' felt too much like an omen. But the empty space it left felt worse.

"You came, then." Lestrade coughed up, trying to avert the awkward silence.

"Yes... Er, yep I..." My voice faded into the silence.

"Well, are you staying here for the rest?" The Doctor asked in an annoyed tone of voice. He probably thought I was an uncaring relative who couldn't get here on time. Before I could reply, though, John had already hurriedly told him that yes, I was staying.

And that made my decision for me. I was staying with John.

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**Thanks so much for reading, I hope you liked it. Please please please please tell me if you liked it because I'm only carrying on based on one person's follow, and I don't want to carry on writing if no one actually likes it. So even if you comment to tell me my grammar is horrible and the storyline is crappy and I can't write, please do! And again, thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Guys, I'm sorry this took so long! I'm in year eleven so the exams have started which leaves me little free time. I took a day off today to revise though, which gives me time to write this and a few other fanfics. Hope you like it!**

**ALL RIGHTS GO TO THE CREATORS OF SHERLOCK**

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Mary pushed the door to her and John's house open. I didn't really know what I was doing here, but John seemed to want me and it felt inappropriate to go home. She gestured me through.

John had already walked in ahead of me. He hadn't said a word since we left the hospital; he'd just sat in the car looking at the world pass by. He walked into the living room so I followed him there.

I sat on the couch opposite him. He was perched on the edge as though waiting for something to happen. But there was nothing to do or say. Mary came in and sat next to him.

"John?" She said softly. The only sound was of the clock ticking.

"What do you want for dinner?" She asked in a desperate attempt to stop the screaming silence.

"I fancy a curry." He said after a pause. Mary and I breathed a sigh of relief as the tension left the room.

"Do you want to stay Sherlock?" Mary asked.

"No I should probably get back soon. That case about the black button needs solving." I replied.

John stood up suddenly. "Great idea, Sherlock, shall we go now? We need to speak to that surfer don't we?"

I looked at Mary. This wasn't supposed to happen. Where was all the crying? I knew he was strong but...

"John... I don't think that's a good idea. You need to decide what you're going to do." I said awkwardly.

"About what?"

Had he lost his memory in the car ride? What is going on? "The chemotherapy, John." I said warily. Mary grimaced and turned away at the word.

John frowned at me. "But I don't have cancer."

"What do you mean? The Doctor just told you... He explained your choices and everything." I couldn't deduce anything about him other than that he was very tense, as though he wanted to leave. He was still stood in the middle of the room while Mary and I stayed sat.

"Oh! That's what you mean. No, he was wrong."

Mary stood up and took his hand after a long pause. John stared at her, and his expression begged her to carry on with the facade. So he knew this wasn't true. He knew he had cancer. Perhaps he was trying to just have one more case, one more fantastic chase before coming to terms with the fact that he was going to die. And that there would be no more chases.

Mary turned and looked at me. I nodded at her. We'd grant his wish.

"Okay. But be back by six for the curry. And do try not to get hurt." She said. This was routine now. She ran her hand over his cheek and kissed him quickly on the lips. But she stayed a bit too long, longer than usual. And I caught her expression as she turned to go to the kitchen. She was trying not to cry.

I stayed in character better than her. I stood up and stalked out of the house with my collar turned up, 'all cool with my cheekbones'.

I began walking down the street, not waiting for John, looking for a taxi. John quickly caught up.

"So where exactly are we going?"

"Like you said, we need to interview the surfer. Then I need to go back to the morgue. I don't need you there for that. Molly's date was cancelled."

I finally got a cab hailed, and we climbed into the back. I turned to look out my window, away from John as I usually did, going over the facts. But I couldn't focus now. I saw my mask slip in the window's reflection.

What is going on?

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The cab dropped John off outside his house at precisely six. I watched him climb out. He was very tired, you could see it in his movements and the bags beneath his eyes. I didn't tell him to enjoy his curry like the human side of me wanted to, I stubbornly remained in character and pretended to stare at my phone.

It had been as if nothing had happened – at one point in the day I'd actually believed the lie too.

The cab set off again.

I texted Lestrade, telling him that it was the brown haired musician.

After a few moments he texted back, but it wasn't about the case.

_Okay. I'll tell Donovan. How's John? Weren't you with him? –GL_

And then, with John missing, I came crashing down from the high of the case. Oh God. I would probably never go on another case with my army doctor, never have him right on my heels and asking stupid questions.

_He's in the denial phase. Won't believe it yet. –SH_

In the Kubler-Ross model, there are five stages of grief. It's supposed to be about people dealing with the loss of a loved one, but it has been known to occur in many other circumstances. This was one such a circumstance. It goes: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. It seemed like a warning of what was to come.

"Excuse me?" I called through the glass separator.

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to go to 221B Baker Street instead, thanks." I told the cabbie.

"No problem, sir."

I just wasn't up to the morgue suddenly. A weird feeling washed over me, like a cold, heavy tide was washing over my body. It made my limbs feel thick and heavy, and made my eyes tickle. This is how depression, or deep sadness, is described. It is an immobiliser. Some emotions spur you into action, and others prevent it altogether.

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"Oh! Wait, Sherlock!" Called Mrs Hudson as I shut the door.

I sighed, shrugging off my coat.

"How is he?" She asked sadly. Mary must have told her.

"In denial at the moment. Just give him time." I told her sympathetically.

"You've changed..." She said slowly.

It was true. John's impending death had changed me completely. I was no longer a sociopath, that wall had been beaten down by the intense emotions I was feeling.

"It's never going to be the same again, is it?" I asked sadly.

"Oh Sherlock!" She exclaimed sadly, and enveloped me in a hug.

But that was a bit too much for me just now.

"I haven't quite changed that much, Mrs Hudson." I said, pulling away from her touch.

She laughed and walked back into her flat.

I trudged up the stairs and continued my experiment, but I just couldn't make myself feel quite right. And I suppose that's simply because nothing _was _right.

Everything had gone wrong.

So I climbed into bed, fully dressed, and tried not to cry. Soon enough, the immobilising tide washed completely over me and I dropped off into oblivion.

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**I don't really like this chapter, but I need to update so this will have to do. Sorry guys!**


	5. Chapter 4

**Hey, my exams are done for a week! Woo! So here comes the next update, I'm hoping it'll be a bit feels-y. Hope you enjoy. Please review, I would really like to have some criticism!**

**All rights go to the creators of Sherlock!**

**Enjoy-**

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A loud slam interrupted my deep sleep. What now?

I rolled out of bed and grabbed the crow bar from underneath it, crouching just below the mattress. When you have this many cases to worry about, you kind of expect things like this to happen. Much like that time during what John called 'The Blind Banker' case, where I had to beat up a martial artist before John got back from shopping. It still amazes me how unobservant that man can be.

There was no more noise in the flat. Perhaps I'd imagined it. Best to check anyway.

I stood up and walked cautiously to the door with the crow bar held at the ready.

"Sherlock?" Someone called, and it made me jump out of my skin. I whacked the wall with the crow bar in my fear. Nice one, Sherlock. The voice wasn't one I'd heard before, but it didn't sound very threatening.

I opened the door slowly. It didn't creak; I made sure to oil the hinges frequently to prevent such a thing. And there, stood staring down at John's chair, was a crippled man. His face was pale, he looked like he smoked a thousand cigarettes a day, although my mind provided me with the information that he'd never smoked in his life, so it was caused by stress. He seemed very weak, perhaps linked to the stress. My mind was firing off deductions, lightening fast. I'd only ever been this quick when I'd first met John.

Used to be in the army, however has since been a doctor. Has a wife, happily married. Presence of stress indicates some sort of illness.

Oh.

John Watson was the man stood in front of his chair.

He was unrecognisable in his sadness.

"John?" I breathed, truly heartbroken to see the state of him.

"Oh! Sherlock! I didn't see you there. Were you asleep? I didn't think you'd be asleep; you never slept when I lived here. Sorry to wake you up. Do you have any tea?" The man rushed the words out so fast he almost couldn't get them out. Another sign of stress.

"Er... Tea, yes?"

"Yes please."

I set about making it, despite the fact that I'd never really made tea for myself before. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"So what brings you here?" I said at the same time as John said "So who was it then?" Obviously referring to my case.

"It was the brown haired musician. I've told Lestrade." I said after making sure he wasn't going to talk over me again, "So how come you're here?" I asked again.

"Oh, you know... Couldn't sleep."

I nodded. I could definitely sympathise with that. The kettle finished boiling and I set about pouring the tea in.

"Does Mary know you're here?" I asked.

"No, no I... I didn't want to worry her." He sat down in his chair as I brought the tea over.

After a few minutes of sipping, John seemed to get to the crux of why he was here; "Sherlock... Do you ever wonder why you're alive?"

"The idea that creatures on a planet have a specific reason for being on that planet seems ridiculous and big-headed to me." I said automatically.

John nodded as though he expected my answer, "I knew you'd say something like that. I don't know why I came really." He said the last part sadly, sounding like he did when he called my name and I hadn't recognised him.

"I suppose, however, that if you asked the Me that has recently found the ability to care, I would have another opinion. I would say that yes, I do wonder why we're alive. I also wonder why we die, and what happens then. I would say that the reason people try to exert their power over people and things in _this_ life is because they know they can never control their death, and fear helplessness in the afterlife, if unconsciously so. I would say that you, John Watson, should not fear oblivion because if anyone deserves a peaceful Rest, it is you, and anyone not willing to give it to you should seriously reconsider their own ideas about life. I would say that you shouldn't be afraid of death, John, because it happens to us all, and when it comes, you will be ready. I just wish I could join you on the single most fascinating case we would ever face, and I ask that maybe you could send me back the notes through your blog. I would say we are alive simply because it is nice to be so, and I believe the object of life is to find happiness, and to make the best of it. And then, once that's done, to have a nice long Rest."

"I'm not really enjoying being alive right at the moment. Does that make me useless?"

"No, John, it means you're winning. You're ahead of everyone else because you are the one who can actually work towards the outcome, and it will make you happier than anyone else who has lived a perfect life."

"Do you fear that people will forget about you?"

"Yes, John. Everyone fears that the world will just keep turning when they're gone because everyone fears being ignored. But trust me when I say that I will never forget my blogger, and I will see you in everything I do, much like I already do now that you've left the flat. I could never forget about you. You are the single most courageous, loving, nurturing, patient and wholly _necessary_ person I have ever met. And I don't know how the world will keep spinning without you."

John just nodded. "Sherlock, I think... I think I might cry." He said quietly, brokenly.

I stood up and patted his shoulder, unsure what to do in the face of emotion.

"Do you want Mrs Hudson?"

"No, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I need you. _Because you are my best friend_. When you get married, your wife is supposed to become number one, but I just can't replace you. I could never replace you when I thought you'd died. So just... Be here." His voice had grown more shaky throughout his sentences, until his voice had broken at the end.

I was reminded of earlier this morning when I wasn't going to go to his appointment, and my heart twinged with guilt.

"I'll never go, John." I said softly, feeling something prickling in my eyes, "Come here."

I took John's weak form in my arms, acting solely on instinct and not practise. He cried into my shoulder, and it was incredibly uncomfortable, but for some reason I couldn't make myself pull away. I felt this over powering need to help, above all else.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

And so John Watson cried into the night. At one point, he whispered "Why did it have to be me?" And Sherlock Holmes agreed so much with what had been whispered that a small tear of appreciation fell down his cheek.

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**I think this chapter's a bit random, I don't know. Let me know how I can improve? Maybe give me a follow? Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! Hopefully I haven't kept you waiting too long. Thanks to the person who followed and favourited by the way! Please do drop a review for me, I would really like to improve in my writing and I can only do that if you are horribly mean to me! Haha ;)**

**All rights go to the creators of BBC Sherlock!**

**Enjoy-**

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The sun had just risen over the high buildings of London, coating the living room of 221B Baker Street in warm sunlight. John was still sleeping across the couch. When he'd finally stopped crying last night, I'd laid him down there and draped a blanket across his hunched form.

I'd been trying to examine some bacteria under the microscope but found it impossible to concentrate. There were no cases interesting enough to be worth solving, but I didn't think I'd be able to actually _think_ about them either.

My attention just kept wandering back to John on the sofa. His back was to me, his chest rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. If only he looked so peaceful during the day. As the warm sun tingled on my fingertips, I thought for the first time since childhood how nice it felt just to be outside. Today, I would take John somewhere warm, and relaxing. Today, dear John Watson would _live._

My phone buzzed.

_Please say John's with you – MW_

Whoops, I'd forgotten to tell Mary.

_Yeah he came late last night. It all came out, but he's sleeping at the moment. I thought I'd take him out today. Do you want to come? –SH_

While I waited for a reply, I decided to start preparing a slap-up breakfast for John. Fair enough, it could go horrible house-on-fire wrong, but I'd at least try. John had always appreciated my efforts before.

_No, you have a good day out with him alone. I'd never interrupt my baker street boys! –MW_

Oh, God. Not a nickname.

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"Sherlock?" John called in confusion as he woke up.

"Yes, John?"

"What on earth are you doing?"

"I believe I'm cooking breakfast, John."

"Why are you boiling the sausages?"

"Was I not meant to?"

John chuckled sleepily and walked over to the cooker.

"Are there any left?"

"Yeah there's another four."

"Put them in a hot pan, with some cooking oil. I'll sort out these."

John poured the water from the saucepan down the sink and threw the weirdly formed sausages in the bin.

"How can you not know how to cook sausages, Sherlock?"

"I deleted it. My Mother always made them for me before, and now I have you and Mrs Hudson."

"No, Sherlock. Now you have Mrs Hudson, and she's probably going to die soon too." John said sharply. His tone took me by surprise; he'd been joking only seconds before.

I just stared at him, unsure what to say, trying to deduce something about his feelings.

"Don't just look at me as though I've lost it. It's not hard to learn to cook sausages – you've had your whole life to learn how. You still have another forty years left to learn if you want to."

"John..."

"Oh, so now I've hurt your feelings because I'm going to die?!"

"Yes, John!" I replied, angry now.

"Why is_ everything always_ MY FAULT?" He shouted at me.

"John, calm down, I didn't say it was your fault-"

"-Then whose fault is it?"

"It's nobody's _fault_, John."

"Would you just stop acting so bloody self-righteous?! You're not God, Sherlock, you don't own the answers to the universe!"

"I never said I did, I'm just trying to help-"

"Yeah, well you know what?" He said, and I felt a break in the air as he moved to pick up his coat, as though something final had happened between us, "It should've been you. You should be dying, not me." He said with cold finality.

And then he left.

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After I'd rescued the sausages from what nearly became a fire, I texted Mary to tell her what had happened.

Stage two of the grieving process: Anger.

That's all this was, and if he got over it as fast as he'd gotten over the denial phase, we should be okay fairly soon.

I wasn't hungry after the fight, so I cleaned up and pulled on my coat.

After walking around London for a few hours, lost in thoughts I didn't remember, I ended up outside the library. I realised at that point what I'd been thinking about:

I could save him.

Sherlock Holmes, the world famous consulting detective, could surely come up with a cure!

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**Thanks for reading guys, and pleasepleaseplease leave a review! I should hopefully update fairly soon, but no promises.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Hey guys, it's been aaaaaages! So sorry, but I've had exams. I should really be revising but meh, it's my last exam tomorrow and then I can update almost daily! Anyway, hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

**I have absolutely no knowledge of this sort of thing, so I apologise for being stereotypical and not knowing /anything/ factual about John's condition, and for not researching it. Please forgive my ignorance! If you do happen to know more than me, please do tell me!**

**ALL RIGHTS GO TO THE CREATORS OF SHERLOCK!**

**Enjoy-**

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"Excuse me, sir, but we're closing up for the night." A soft voice prodded me out of my haze. I'd arrived at the library at roughly 11am, and had been furiously scribbling notes from ten different medical books. It was now 6pm, and when I lifted my head to meet the concerned gaze of the librarian, I realised I had a pulsing headache.

I was too busy adjusting to the stabbing pains in my head to take notice of what he'd told me.

"Would you like to check out some of these books?" The man, early forties, two dogs and a girlfriend with a child he thought was spoiled, asked me politely.

"Er... Yes please."

"You can only get four out at a time, I'm afraid."

"Right," I rummaged through the stacks of books, and the ones splayed madly across two tables, trying to figure out which ones would be most helpful to me until I could check out the next ones tomorrow morning, "these four then." I handed them to him.

The man began to walk over to his desk but stopped after a few steps, turning towards me.

"Don't worry about putting all the books back, I'll do that for you. You look half-dead!" He exclaimed jokily.

That only reminded me of John, and that time spent chatting to the librarian was time wasted in saving John's life. A fresh wave of adrenaline came over my numb brain and spurred me into action.

"Thank you." I rushed as the librarian turned back towards his desk. I hurriedly picked up all my notes, ending up with a wad the size of an A4 packet. At least the headache was gone.

With a jolt, I remembered I'd forgotten to ask if John was okay. I quickly whipped my phone out of my coat to see a text from John and three missed called from Mary.

John's text read: **I don't know what came over me Sherlock. Sorry –JW**

Ah, so he had calmed down by now. Best to call Mary anyway. I pressed the phone to my ear.

"Sherlock?" Mary answered.

"Hi."

"Oh thank God, John was so worried he'd really upset you. Where have you been all day?"

"I've been researching for my latest case in the library."

"You're on a new case already?" She asked in surprise.

"Well, technically not, no. I've been trying to find... A cure, for..." I trailed off, not wanting to say it.

"Oh." Mary said quietly.

I sucked in a breath, walking over to the librarian's desk, "So when did John come home?"

"Only around three hours ago. He was angry for a long time."

"Yeah..." I said, not knowing what else to say.

"Is this part of that thing you told me? The stages of grief?"

"Yes, the next stage is anger."

"Ah, right. That explains it then. Well, are you coming over for tea or just continuing with your... case." She ended uncertainly.

"Case, I'm afraid." Every second spent fishing my library card out of my wallet was time wasted.

"Okay then, Sherlock. See you tomorrow."

"See you." I then hung up.

"Everything alright?" The librarian asked.

I hummed in reply, stuffing my phone into my pocket.

"I'm terribly sorry but I couldn't help over-hearing, you're looking for a cure?"

"Yes." I said bluntly, my emotionless exterior returning.

"What for?" He pressed.

"Cancer." I sighed.

"What type?" He eagerly continued. I'm not one for social manners, but I was sure this was overstepping the mark.

"Brain tumour." I supplied tensely.

"How far along?"

"He has about three months without chemo."

"Does he want chemo?"

"He doesn't know yet. Although, judging by his attitude, I would say he didn't want it. He doesn't have the mentality of a man with a stretch of years before him."

"Sorry to keep pressing you. I feel I should explain myself. I used to be a surgeon; I worked on children's cancer wards."

I'd already deduced such a thing. He left because he found it too depressing, being around the aura of sadness I myself felt when I went to John's meeting.

"Yes, I can see that. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." I extended my hand.

"Philip Green, former Surgeon, current librarian. It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too. For once, I find myself needing the services of someone of a higher intellectual value than myself. Would you come back to my flat and help find a cure?"

"Certainly, sir." Philip smiled, "I've been waiting for this forever."

**Didn't see Philip coming! He just sprouted out from nowhere. I hope you like him! Please do review because I really do need the feedback, and I won't get any better at writing without a critical eye. Thanks so much for reading, I hope to update in about a week, maybe less : )**


	8. Chapter 7

**Hey, how are you guys? I've been busy writing a new fanfic based on the Ballet!Lock AU, hence the silence here. I haven't published it yet because, learning from experience on this fic, I decided to write the whole thing before publishing. Anyways, on with the fic!**

**Enjoy!**

"Sherlock!" Philip shook my shoulder.

I looked up at him, annoyed that he'd broken me out of my spell, "Yes?"

"There's someone at the door."

"Well answer it, then!" I replied gruffly. Honestly, ordinary people are so _slow_. I felt Philip clamber up beside me. I returned to my work and tried to ignore their conversation.

"Oh, finally! Hello!" Came Mary's voice from across the room.

"Uh, hi... I'm sorry, who are you?"

"I'm Mary, a friend of Sherlock's." There was an awkward pause before Mary continued, "Don't expect him to introduce us; when he's stuck in his work, there's no stopping him. How do you know Sherlock?"

"I met him today. He was at the library where I work, and I couldn't help but overhear that he was looking for a cure for cancer. I worked on a children's cancer ward, so I got talking with him and... Well, this happened."

"Ah, well, this is where I come into the story. Sherlock is looking for a cure for his best friend, John, my husband." Mary said, looking at the ground.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"No, no it's fine," Mary smiled, "I just came round to check Sherlock had been eating okay – usually when he's too busy concentrating he just wastes away. John would have come, only he's... Going through a rough patch."

"Well, I must admit he was at the library for quite a few hours with nothing to eat," Philip reached up and smoothed the back of his neck in thought, "Other than that I don't really know." Philip looked at me. He seemed to realise Mary was still stood outside at this point, and jumped back, "Please, come in."

"Thanks," Mary set her coat on John's chair, "You seem rather used to Sherlock." She observed.

"In what way?"

"Usually people want nothing to do with him because he's so rude, and you don't seem surprised at how he just blanks the world when he's in his mind palace."

Philip shrugged, "I suppose all geniuses have their quirks."

Mary smiled.

"Sherlock," Mary called, "When was the last time you ate?"

I snapped my head to look at her. I couldn't concentrate! "If I tell you, will you leave?" I snapped.

"Yes." She replied serenely.

"Last night's dinner."

"Okay, I'm going to make you some sandwiches." She sighed.

I ignored her, leaning back down to the countless bits of paper surrounding me. I was almost done educating myself on the causes and ins-and-outs of the disease. Once I'd done that, I could use these theories to try to find a cure. Like a case, I suppose; learn the details and then find the solution.

Philip sat back down next to me, "How're we doing?" He asked.

"Just fine, thank you." I replied.

"Okay... Um, if it's alright with you Sherlock, I need to be getting home soon."

"Okay, so I'll see you after work tomorrow?"

"Yep, should be fine." Philip patted my shoulder while I tried not to cringe away from the contact.

I focussed back on the work.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Sherlock, what are you even doing?!" A loud shout interrupted my thoughts.

I whipped my head up in shock to see John walking all over mine and Philip's work.

"Where's Mary and Philip?" I asked, bewildered.

"Oh God, you call yourself a genius but you don't even know that Mary left last night!" John's words were slurred.

"It's been a whole _day_?"

I glanced around me and saw a note by my leg.

_Hi Sherlock, I popped round but you were completely out of it so I didn't stay long. I cleaned up your uneaten sandwiches, but maybe you should eat something when you come to?_

_-Philip_

This is probably the most immersed I'd been in anything for a while.

"Oh and what's this?" John demanded before clumsily swiping the note from my grasp. He squinted at the page, "Phil... Philip? Is he your new _best friend_?" John said angrily.

"No, John, he's just someone I was consulting to help with my current case."

"Oh so you _consult _people now, Mr _Consulting Detective_?"

"John, you're clearly intoxicated, so would you please shut up and go to bed?"

"_Don't you dare speak to me like that! _I'm _dying,_ I can do what I want!"

I sighed and put my head in my hands. My head was pounding and I felt nauseous.

"I'm calling Mary." I said, reaching for my phone.

John grabbed it before I could and threw it across the room. It zipped like a Frisbee and whacked the fridge loudly. "Mary doesn't _want me_! She threw me out!"

"John, I'm sure that's not true." I said, standing up to survey my phone.

"She did!" John assured me, "Ask her!" He said, stumbling in his woozy, drunken state.

The screen was cracked but my phone was still usable, so I dialled Mary's number.

I watched John look confusedly round the room while I waited for her to pick up the phone.

"Sherlock?" Mary answered tearfully.

"Yes, Mary, hello. I've got John here. What exactly happened?"

"I can't take it anymore, Sherlock. He's constantly picking fights with me and-" She broke off, trying not to cry.

"And?" I prompted.

"He punched me. Right in the nose. It's just stopped bleeding. I need... I need a few days away from him. Oh God, that sounds horrible doesn't it? I just..." She trailed off.

"It's okay Mary, it's not your fault. John's just finding it hard to cope at the moment. He can stay here the night." I said, watching him. He had sunken into his chair and was starting to fall asleep.

"Thank you." She said quietly.

"Night, Mary."

"Night."

I hung up. I walked towards John, trying not to startle him. "John?" I called quietly.

He roused himself enough to look up at me, "What?"

"I'm going to take you to your room now, will you help me?"

John mumbled unintelligibly as he pushed himself out of his chair. He leaned on me heavily as I led him up to his room. It was like he'd regressed massively overnight, and I couldn't stop imagining what it would feel like when I had to take him to his room, not because he was drunk, but because his body was beginning to fail him.

I quickly suppressed the emotions, taking a firmer hold on John's arm. I noticed, now, what I hadn't before – traces of Mary's blood and the beginnings of a bruise on John's right knuckle.

_Oh, John_, I thought sadly, _What's going on?_

**Guys, seriously, please let me know what you think. If you just read this and thought 'what the-?' then please tell me! If however you read this and loved it, please give me a vote or a nice review! Pleeease? If you don't, how do I know if it's any good or not?**

**But seriously, thanks for reading this far!**


	9. Chapter 8

**ALL RIGHTS GO TO THE MAKERS OF BBC SHERLOCK, I OWN NOTHING!**

I gripped some of my curls in frustration – I WAS STILL CLUELESS!

I'd had a few ideas which had failed as I ran over them theoretically in my head, but now I'd run out of even those. It had been three days since I'd started the research, and if I was treating this as a case, I should be a lot closer to solving it than I was. Philip was due round later, and that was the only thing that kept me from despairing. This case was so much harder than any other I'd had to solve; so much was weighing on me figuring it out. Usually if I couldn't solve a case, my biggest fear was John writing it up on his blog so people would 'know that I'm human'. Now, however, if I didn't solve this case... John would die. And it would be my fault.

"Sherlock, dear, didn't you hear the doorbell?" Mrs Hudson's sweet voice filtered through my door.

"I told Philip to put it in the microwave – I'm not taking cases." I said impatiently.

"It's Lestrade, dear." She informed me, as if she was my secretary.

"Why aren't you taking cases?" He called through after Mrs Hudson.

I grunted in frustration, curling up into a ball in an attempt to force the needy voices in my mind to shut up.

"I'll get it." John suddenly said drowsily, from the top of the stairs.

Ah, at three the following afternoon, the drunkard was finally out of bed! I quickly uncurled myself so as to appear nonchalant in front of guests.

John looked terrible. He was slouched over in his clothes from last night, with stubble dusting his jaw and bags under his eyes.

"D'you fancy a cuppa?" He asked the two visitors as he opened the door.

"Oh John, you look awful! What's up, dear?" Cooed Mrs Hudson as she patted his cheeks.

"Had a bit too much to drink last night." John said regretfully.

"A bit?" Lestrade laughed openly at John.

"Shut it, Graham." John half-heartedly bantered, massaging his temples as he led them in.

"You sit down, John. I'll pop the kettle on. You know, I've had my fair share of wild nights and terrible mornings in my time."

Lestrade delightedly asked Mrs Hudson for more details while I tuned out the conversation as John kneeled next to me on the floor.

"Sherlock, please tell me last night was a terrible dream and I did not do what I think I did to Mary." He whispered fervently.

I shook my head sadly, looking at my hands. He inhaled sharply, clearly hating himself.

"Would you just excuse me a second? I need to make a phone call." John stood and walked up to his room for some privacy.

"You alright there, John?" Lestrade called worriedly.

"Uh, yeah I'm just gonna get changed and... Clean myself up a bit." He said distractedly. After he'd shut the door behind him, Lestrade walked over to put his hand on my shoulder.

"Is he really okay, Sherlock?"

"He's finding it hard at the moment, but considering what he's going through, he's doing really well." I said unemotionally.

I sighed and stretched, my bones aching from my lack of movement over the last few days. As I stood, my vision blurred and I felt light-headed. Lestrade steadied me with a hand on my arm.

"Are _you_ alright?" He asked.

"Yeah, I just haven't eaten for... A couple of days." I said, stumbling into the kitchen to make some sandwiches.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson chastised, "Just because John isn't here to look after you doesn't mean you can let yourself starve." She tutted as she poured the milk into our teas.

I sighed, already annoyed with my company, "Yes, why are you here?" I asked Lestrade.

"Look, I really need your help. There's been three murders, all connected through the cause of death, and my team and I are utterly lost-" I started to shake my head, "-No, please Sherlock. People are dying!" Lestrade demanded.

"So is John!" I retorted angrily, "You're the one who told me I should support him, and now that I am you're not happy!"

"It's one thing to support him and another to completely obsess yourself with... Whatever this is." He gestured to the mass of paper spread all over the living room.

"I am finding a cure." I said slowly, trying to regain some control.

"What, really?!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed.

"Well this is excellent, I mean _Sherlock Holmes_ is bound to find a cure!" She said excitedly. But I said nothing, just looked down at my hands.

I could feel them both staring at me. "Well it's not... It's not that easy. I can't just deduce the way to kill the cancer by observing them. I can't just figure out their alibi because of some marks on the finger nails. This is different, and I can't-" I breathed in sharply, "I can't do it."

"But you've only been trying for a couple of days!" Lestrade tried to encourage me.

"I know when I'm stuck., Greg. I can't do it."

"Well... What's happening with the chemo?"

"I don't think he'll take it. I know as much as him about the disease now, and I know that it'll only prolong his life, not kill the cancer. He's seen what it does to people, how much they suffer. He's not going through with it."

Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were silent. I could've heard a pin drop.

Suddenly Lestrade put his head in his hands, breathing heavily. "Oh, Jesus," He whispered, "I just..." He lowered his hands, "It's just hit me." His eyes were red.

I looked down, unsure of what to say. To be honest, I thought I was only doing this research so I wouldn't have to think about what was happening. It hadn't hit me yet, the way it had Lestrade.

Mrs Hudson had moved to give him a hug in that motherly way she did, and he returned it while he tried to get himself under control. "How long has he got left?" He asked from within the hug.

"Just under three months." I supplied.

"_Christ_." He said quietly.

They eventually pulled out of the hug with some unseen mutual agreement, and then Mrs Hudson handed us our teas.

"John? Your tea is ready!" She called up the stairs.

"Yeah, er... Could Sherlock bring it up for me, please?" His voice wavered.

Mrs Hudson sympathetically handed me John's army mug. We all knew John felt too strong a sense of pride to let Lestrade or Mrs Hudson see him cry.

I left them to talk in hushed voices about John.

When I reached his door, I knocked, which I never usually do but John was clearly feeling very fragile at the moment.

"Come in." Was the reply.

John was sat on his bed with his phone in his hand, his suitcase open next to him. Various items of clothing, and a lot of jumpers, were laying around the room.

"John?" I asked in shock. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what's going on. I put his mug on his bedside table.

"I'm going away. To stay with Harry. Mary... Mary wants some space from me," His voice sounded thick with tears as he told me this; shame etched on his face, "And er... I'm worried about Harry. She's been sober for almost six months now, and I want to keep an eye on her."

"I could come with you?" I offered.

"No, I... I think I need to just get away for a while. Please don't tell Mrs Hudson or Lestrade, they'll only worry."

I nodded slowly.

"Um..." I began, uncertain of how best to phrase what I needed to say, "You know you have to come back soon, don't you? For... hospital checks and-"

"-Yes, I know, Sherlock. I am a bloody Doctor y'know." He tried to joke.

I chuckled half-heartedly. "Do you want me to take you up to her?"

"Er, yeah actually. That would be great."

I nodded, "I'll leave you to pack then."

John smiled fragilely, and I shut his door.

"Is he okay, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Yeah, he's fine. Just talking to Mary." I covered up smoothly for him.

They nodded.

"So are you gonna take this case, or...?" Lestrade asked.

I thought for a moment. I thought about how utterly clueless I was, how hopeless it was. It would take way longer than three months even if I did find something.

"Yes. I'll take it. Meet you at the Yard in two hours?" I suggested.

"Sure. Thanks, mate."

Lestrade promptly finished his tea and left.

"You're not going to carry on with the research then?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"No... I just can't seem to..." I conveyed my frustration by throwing my hands in the air. Mrs Hudson nodded understandingly.

"Well, let's clear all this up, then." She suggested, gesturing to the mess in the living room. She reached for a bin bag.

Each piece of paper I threw into the bin bag felt like a punch to the stomach, because I'd given up. I'd given up on John.

**Alright, that's the next chapter. Sorry I'm so awful at updating, guys. Please forgive me!**

aHHHHfhvu52urv


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